


F = d/dt(mv)

by oddmonster



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddmonster/pseuds/oddmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov doesn't know how much longer he can stay quiet. Especially when Scotty does that *thing* with his eyebrows and talks plasma physics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. F = d/dt(mv)

Chekov fingers the tangle of red, blue and green coated wires, mapping them to their logical destinations. "I think you have the transwerse output mixed up with the obwerse. If we switch them--"

"Then we'll blow up half of Life Sciences and the Riseaway court in the bargain. Look again, laddie. You think I don't know my transverse from my obverse outputs? Don't be daft. All that needs doing is tying the transverse output to the drive's output duct. Soon as the obverse output is rerouted through the isolated-phase bus--"

Chekov interrupts Scotty with a firm shake of his head. "Sir, the isolated-phase bus cannot successfully route the amount of power needed to support the impulse drive at full warp. If we were to activate the transporter while the impulse drive was running, it would route the power back through the transwerse output and..." Chekov scrambles, searching. "Boom!"

Scotty considers for a moment. "Good point."

The two of them are lying so close together under one of the Engineering consoles that if he turns his head, Chekov can see the light from the glowing circuitry perfectly reflected in Scotty's eyes.

But he tries not to look, because then Scotty--the ship's chief engineer, his mentor, maybe, and one of the only people in the world who understands Wigner's theorem at least as well as he does--would ask him what he's thinking. The danger of that, more than anything else, keeps Chekov motionless as the two of them search for a way to accommodate the power flux from transporting at warp.

Scotty shifts, reaching for a sonic screwdriver. The engineer's shoulder bumps against Chekov's, searing his skin through the polyester uniform. "Penny for your thoughts, lad?"

"My thoughts are worth much more than that."

Scotty's chuckle goes straight to his cock and Chekov resists the urge to slide a hand down and adjust the contents of his uniform trousers. Instead, he says the first thing that isn't naked, or kissing or being bent over the impulse drive console and fucked hard and fast and rough. "Lady Amanda," he stammers. His cheeks warm with the contradiction. He hopes Scotty doesn't notice.

Of course he notices.

"Och," Scotty says softly. He drops the screwdriver with a muffled curse, then turns and looks at Chekov. "Wasn't your fault, laddie. You did the best you could." He stares for a second, lips parted.

Chekov stops breathing. He thinks maybe he never knew how in the first place, then Scotty starts and pulls away, scrambling for the screwdriver in the close space and jostling Chekov in the process. "Ye canna let it get to you, okay? That was a damn fine bit of calculatin' you managed. There's not a one on the ship could've managed better. And you brought the captain and Mr. Sulu back. They'll tell you how well you did, if you dunna believe me." Scotty locates the screwdriver and wriggles his arm up between the two of them, gaze returning to the loose wiring.

Chekov swallows hard, forcing himself to remain still and not turn and look at Scotty's fingers, pulling them to his mouth and kissing the tips, or better yet, guiding them to his throbbing cock. The pressure's gotten painful and Chekov gives in and adjusts himself, hoping Scotty doesn't notice.

"Look," Scotty continues. His voice softens. "The odds are that we're gonna lose a lot of people on missions like that and you have to accept there's nothing you can do about it, just...just focus on the ones who come back. There's no other way."

Chekov gets a vision then, of Scotty falling through space above some distant planet, and he sees his hands fumbling on the transporter controls, fingers slipping on the wrong buttons, listening to Scotty scream as the magnitude of his velocity increases, _F = d/dt(mv), F = d/dt(mv)_, but his fingers can't find _d_ in time to stop Scotty from--

"Pavel."

Chekov turns. He loves the sound of his given name in Scotty's broad, lush accent. He stares into Scotty's eyes and wishes he could hear Scotty whisper that name, close enough to feel the brush of lips against his ear. He swallows hard and blinks, blood pounding. "Perhaps you are right, sir. Maybe it is because you are older."

"Ah, what've I told you 'bout that 'sir' nonsense, aye? Save it for the captain. He likes that sort of thing and no mind. And I'm only thirty-three, for Chrissakes." Scotty turns back to him, eyes alight with circuitry again. His expression's wary and his voice quieter. "You sure you're all right, lad?"

_No,_ Chekov wanted to say. _No, I am not all right. I keep having this dream where you pin me to my bunk and fuck me so hard I yell with every thrust, and you stick your fingers in my mouth to shut me up but it does not work and you like it that everyone hears me being fucked by you. You like it when your dick makes me move and scream._ He swallowed hard. "I am fine. How is the array coming?"

Scotty looks for a second like he's going to push it, then gives the fixed array one last tap with his fingertip. "She'll hold. And if she doesn't, she'll come out and get tossed out the airlock, to float around in the cold for the next three millennia and think about what she's done. My money's on holding, though."

Then Scotty slips out from under the console and makes the noises of a man getting awkwardly to his feet. "Och. What living in that godforsaken ice bucket will do to a man's back."

And Chekov finds himself lying on the floor of Engineering all alone, staring up at perfectly soldered wires, all in their correct places. The circuit lights wink out of existence.

Someone taps his foot and whistles. "Fall asleep in there, ensign?"

Chekov slides slowly out from the warm, enclosed console to find Scotty leaning over him, hand outstretched. "C'mon, lad. Only good thing from being my age is that y'can get the barkeep to let you have a bottle of the good stuff, all to yourself. Seems you could use a shot or two of Scots courage right about now."

"Russian courage. I drink wodka, sir." He stumbles over the treacherous consonant and realizes he's called Scotty 'sir' again. At this rate, he might stop blushing by the time he turns twenty-one.

Scotty grimaces as he picks up the outer panel of the console and begins fitting it back in place. "I dunna know how you manage that stuff, I really don't. Tastes like dilithium runoff." The panel squeaks as it slides back into place. Scotty rises again and claps his hands together, rubbing them gleefully. "Now. How 'bout that drink, hey?"

Chekov nods enthusiastically. It's not on his back being fucked until he can't see, but it's a start, and for now it'll have to do.

Scotty grins. "Right. Let's be off then."

"One moment, sir. I have a task I must perform before we go."

"Oh. I'll go with you then. Where we off to?"

Chekov bites his lip. In point of fact, he's off to the nearest lavatory; if he gets even the slightest bit drunk, Chekov suspects he might try and kiss Scotty or touch him or simply sit there next to him and come in his pants. But he's sure he can make himself come with his hand in less than four minutes because it will only be the third time today. "No, sir. It will only take me a few moments and--"

"Ah, I see. I should likely go too, now that you mention it." An awkward pause follows. "Well, see you down there, then."

Chekov goes back to nodding. That part of him at least, is still under his control.

Scotty turns and heads for the door then stops. He looks as if he's about to ask something else, and Chekov stops breathing, in case that helps.

Scotty stares at Chekov for a long moment, while the Engineering bay hums and whirs around them, the air heavy with something Chekov's never encountered before, something he can't analyze, take apart and understand. "Commander Scott?"

Scotty takes a step back toward him, eyes shadowed and cautious. "Ensign Chekov...you sure you're okay, lad?"

Chekov's heart hurts at no longer being Pavel, but he forces himself to speak. "I was just thinking, sir. The subspace displacement coils. Their output should be between sewen and nine kilojoules per second, and yet, if my calculations are correct, they are working significantly below that level. If we were to run a series of Lorentz transformations on the output, mapped across four dimensions, we might be able to identify where the problem is." He's right; he's always right, but the coils can surely wait til the next shift, and the tests he's suggesting could be run by the simplest child. Still, Scotty turns from the door.

He holds Chekov's gaze for a minute then nods. "Well, it's not a cask-distilled single malt, but let's fire these beauties up and see what they have to say for themselves." He crosses back to the console and punches in a few numbers. "We'll need to run this from more than one console. Tie up a few processors for a while. Could take hours, lad. You sure you wouldn't rather be someplace else?"

Chekov could think of nothing he wanted more than a few more hours alone with Montgomery Scott. Grinning, he answers, "Aye, Commander." And springs into action.

"You are a wee enthusiastic one, aren't you? Aye then. Go on and take care of your business, and I'll meet you back here. Looks like we've got a long night ahead of us."

Chekov's brain helpfully interprets that sentence in any number of sexually acrobatic ways, at least three of which involve Jeffries tubes and one he suspects might permanently stunt his growth.

All of them would be worth it.

Dashing off a sharp nod, Chekov turns and darts out of Engineering and sprints along the corridor, dimly registering Scotty leaving at a more sedate pace, turning in the opposite direction. Panting, Chekov pokes the door controls on the lavatory and ducks inside. Three minutes, he tells himself, tops.


	2. q/A = -k(dT/dx)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then they were attacked by green slime, interrupting Scotty's terribly wicked thought process.

Scotty leaned over the sink and took several long, deep breaths. He splashed water over his face and neck and succeeded in getting it most of the way down his uniform shirt and trousers, too. _Thank god for black trousers,_ he thought. _Now it just looks like I'm a slob, rather than a mouth-breathing pervert who just ducked into the lav for a quick one off the wrist._

Chekov had been wriggling about under that console next to him for close on three hours, and it had been torture. Pure, unadulterated, mind-blowingly fantastic torture. 

There was something about the way Chekov thought, the things he could do with his mind...if his body could reproduce even a tenth of that energy Scotty figured he'd chance it, given the option. Quite simply, the lad was brilliant. He understood theoretical physics and the Vlasov equation better than anyone Scotty'd yet to encounter. Plus, the face he made trying to pronounce "Vlasov equation"...

If Scotty was being honest with himself -- _and really, once you've locked yourself in a lavatory to avoid tearing a seventeen-year-old ensign's trousers in half it's as good a time for honesty as ever, Montgomery_ \-- he'd never felt this way about anyone before. Not once, ever, and it was scaring him sideways.

Chekov was perfect.

The boundless enthusiasm and keen mind were enough to drive a man to drink, but paired with the soft, sweet eyes and brilliant smile, not to mention an arse so high and tight you could mount it on the wall of some old-fashioned game-room next to an elk or a water buffalo, something exotic and horned and endangered.

The lad simply had to stop following him around, being brilliant and sweet and beautiful, or Scotty was going to bend him over the impulse drive console and do something they'd both regret, right after it stopped feeling incredible. Fuck, it had been a long time. 

Scotty grimaced at his reflection in the mirror mounted over the sink. "Get ahold of yerself, man. He's half your age. Half!" he whispered fiercely. "And the odds of him looking twice at a middle-aged git with a paunch and whatever's happening with your hair up there are--"

Frowning, Scotty whirled in the direction of the door.

His imagination had provided the sound of a soft, high, heavily accented voice chiming in with an answer, surely.

He waited a few seconds, listening intently for the sound to be repeated, but the only thing on offer was his own ragged breathing and the ambient hum of the Enterprise. But definitely no Chekov. 

He glared back at his reflection in the mirror. Fantastic. Get named chief of engineering on a Federation-class starship, start hearing things. Lovely. _They can get me for being a mental, if they don't do me for shagging an underage ensign in the middle of the E Deck catwalk first._

Scotty gripped the sink harder and closed his eyes. A vision came to him, of Chekov on his knees in front of him, on the catwalk's metal gratings, looking up. His face was lit by the glow from the warp core at Scotty's back.

In the vision, Chekov's pale, thin hands dragged Scotty's trousers down and released his throbbing cock. The ensign slid one trembling hand to the base of it, looking anxious and slightly awed (_If a man can't dream in his own fantasy..._) before wrapping those pouty, perfect lips around the head. Scotty could hear the soft, anxious moans Chekov was making and a groan of his own slipped out to join them. He swore he could feel the wet heat of the lad's mouth and the tentative, clumsy swipes of tongue before Chekov took his cock in deep, sucking eagerly.

Sweat-damp curls nestled between Scotty's fingers as he held Chekov's skull and fucked that willing mouth. _Och. So good, lad. So good._

Whining a response, Chekov burrowed his face in the fur topping Scotty's cock and opened his throat, giving.

Scotty took, savagely.

He swore he could feel those skinny fingers digging into the flesh of his ass as he thrust, rocking his hips into Chekov's eager, inexpert mouth. He watched with interest as Chekov dropped one hand to his fly, fumbling to free his own erection; white briefs and pale skin and..._oh._ Chekov moaned, frantically fisting his own cock and sucking Scotty at the same time.

The sensation was indescribable, watching and feeling that wet mouth on him...

Scotty came to with a start, panting and goggle-eyed at his reflection. He looked down and found one hand still white-knuckling the sink. 

The other had his dick in it.

Scotty looked back up at his wide-eyed reflection in the mirror.

Well, he and Keenser had survived Delta Vega once, surely they could manage a second time. 

Unless the punishment for being a dirty old man was simply a swift kick out the nearest airlock, which, by the way, he wouldn't for one second--

There was a tentative knock at the door.

"Sir? Commander Scott, sir? I have been sent to ask if you are in need of any medical assistance."

Scotty'd recognize that voice anywhere and hurried to tuck himself away. Yup. The airlock was sounding better and better.

Scotty cleared his throat. "Just a minute, lad." He washed his hands and told his trousers to stay presentable, or at the very least compliant. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and pressed the button to exit.

The door opened on an empty corridor.

Frowning, Scotty leaned out and looked first one direction, then the other. "Hullo?" The passageway leading off the engine room was completely empty. Just to be sure, Scotty checked the turbolift, too. _Now I'm imagining the lad came after me. Fantastic! Maybe they'll at least allow me a sandwich, a condemned man's last request before they boot me out._ Scotty frowned at the corridor around him and padded back down to Engineering. "Lad? Ensign Chekov?"

The only response was the soft coursing of recirculated air through the ventilation pipes and the hum of the warp drives, the easy, gentle breathing of the ship herself. But the room itself was deserted. Scotty frowned. They'd been examining the transverse output module and had been for half the evening. And then the lavatory...and the voice...

"Mr. Scott, sir?"

Scotty whirled around.

Chekov leaned toward him, all eyes and cheeks and a brain the size of Alpha-Centauri, flushed and breathing slightly hard, as if he'd just run a race. "Are you all right, sir?"

Scotty's frown deepened. "Tell me, lad, have you already asked me that this evening?"

"I do not understand. I should not ask how you are feeling?"

"Er, no, that wasn't what I was getting at. See, actually, a funny thing happened just now. I thought, you see, that you..." Scotty turned in the direction of the console they'd been working on. "Did you just hear--"

There was a noise very much like a belch, then thick green ooze began pouring out of the base of the console they'd just been working on.

"Erm," Scotty said helpfully. "Did you..."

Chekov shrugged, then knelt next to the rapidly spreading puddle of goo. He extended a finger toward it then yelped and fell over backward.

Scotty bent to help him up, accidentally bringing his shoe in contact with the goo. The black sole bubbled and melted, releasing a thin column of foul-smelling smoke.

Scotty fell over next to Chekov, his shoulder accidentally bumping Chekov's thin chest.

The green ooze continued to pour from the column of the console, steaming and hissing across the floor panels toward them.

There was a ping of hardware giving way and a graunch of warped titanium as the slime seethed over to the impulse drive console and slithered impossibly up it. Scotty grabbed Chekov's leg then thought the better of it and settled for a manly grasp of his arm. "Lad, we'd best get going. I don't think our bubbling little friend here's in the mood to hear about how we rewired the isolated-phase bus to deal with obverse output. Let's get out of here."

Wide-eyed, Chekov pointed to the door over Scotty's shoulder.

Scotty turned to look.

Viscous green slime was surging up it from the floor, and as Scotty watched, the electronic controls shorted out in a shower of sparks. "Bloody hell," Scotty said softly. He stared around the big bay.

The slime appeared to be everywhere. It poured down over the main injector assembly controls with a happy blurp and began bubbling up the steps to the E-Deck catwalk in the very way that green slime shouldn't. "Bloody hell," Scotty repeated.

Chekov smartly tapped the communicator on his gold tunic. "Engineering to Bridge. We have a situation down here."

"Oh goody," Kirk replied. "I love a good situation. What've you and Mr. Scott done now?"

Surely Chekov's blush was all in Scotty's imagination. Hell, for all he knew, the killer green slime in his engine room was all part of one last grand hallucination as he hurtled breathlessly through the expanses of cold dark space, the Enterprise's airlock just a distant memory.

"There is an unusual substance on the floor of Engineering, Captain," Chekov continued carefully. I think it is eating some of the controls. It has a highly acidic nature and should be considered dangerous."

There was a long pause. Over on the impulse drive console, green slime curdled up and over the top edge in a huge glop. A huge bubble of it burst, splattering down around and on them. Where drops of it fell on their uniforms it seethed and boiled, eating through the cloth to their skin. "Ow! Fucking hell!" Scotty batted at his thigh and arm and with a muttered oath, Chekov did the same. The two of them scrambled back across the floor to the nearest wall. The impulse drive console had begun to melt, hissing and bubbling. It smelled like someone was cooking a transistor radio.

"I'm sorry," Kirk said, "but did you say it's eating the controls?"

"And nearly two of your officers to boot!" Scotty shouted. Their backs were against the wall and a rivet dug into Scotty's shoulderblade. "It's got us trapped!"

"Spock, report. What's eating my Engineering Bay?"

"Well, captain, it appears that an unknown alkaline substance has begun--"

"Yes yes, we know all that," Scotty cried in frustration. "Could we get to the bit where someone figures out how to get the door open and stop it eating us?"

"Mr. Scott," Spock said calmly, "if you are able to reach the ventilation shaft accessed by the panel on the northeastern quadrant wall, between the impulse drive control and the--"

"Main injector assembly controls!" Scotty finished triumphantly. "Aye, we're there." He thumped the wall behind him. 

"As I was saying," Spock continued, "if you can access that ventilation shaft, we can secure the entrance behind you by initiating lockdown procedures pertaining to--"

Scotty dragged Chekov to his feet and between them they frantically unscrewed the access panel for the ventilation shaft and dropped it with a clang. The slime seethed toward it.

Chekov hesitated and Scotty grabbed a handful of tunic and a handful of ensign arse and shoved upwards. Feet digging at the smooth steel wall, Chekov hauled himself into the shaft and disappeared.

Scotty looked down at the floor around him. The access panel was a smoking, bubbling memory and the slime continued to move, surging across the floor toward him. He backed as far as he could against the wall, trying to shrink against it.

Slime surged over the tops of his shoes and began eating through the leather.

"Mr. Scott, sir!"

Scotty looked up.

Chekov hung halfway out of the ventilation shaft. "Giwe me your hand, sir!"

Scotty didn't need telling twice.

He leapt for Chekov's hand and, feet stinging, began clambering up the wall to the shaft.

One look down told him the slime was following suit.

Scotty wouldn't've believed the lad strong enough, but Chekov just kept pulling on him, tugging him into the tiny dark tunnel. It was barely wide enough for the two of them to lie head-to-foot and shunt their way away from the entrance, hands and feet squeaking against the shaft's sides. "Go!" Scotty roared, "seal us in!"

"Initiating lockdown procedures," Spock said calmly. "In three, two, one..."

A thick metal plate slammed down over the entrance to the shaft then with a noise like a sewing machine, it stitched the edges shut of its own accord.

For a moment, Scotty lay panting with relief in the darkness. His feet still stung -- an itching, blistering kind of sting -- but that sensation soon took a backseat to the overwhelming realization that he was locked in a very narrow ventilation shaft, pressed firmly against the boy he'd only a few minutes ago been thinking fantasizing about in the lavatory.

"Next time someone remind me to be more specific when I plan to go mad," he muttered.

"What was that, Mr. Scott, sir?" Chekov's plaintive voice sounded from near Scotty's groin.

_Oh God._

_Oh God Oh God Oh God,_ Scotty amended. _One good dirty thought and I'll give the poor lad a black eye._

"Everything all right in there, gang?" Kirk's voice was unnaturally loud in the confines of the shaft.

Scotty closed his eyes and thought about physics. Especially the bits that pertained to the action of ice and other very cold things.

"Ebsolutely, captain!" Chekov answered cheerfully. "We are definitely not being eaten!"

"Glad to hear it, ensign," Kirk said. "Mr. Scott there too?"

"Er, yes," Scotty answered. "Now that you mention it."

**Author's Note:**

> F = d/dt(mv) is a reduction of Newton's Second Law, about the--ahem--force of impulse pressing on a body.


End file.
